


Pills and Blades may end my life but Death will never hurt me.

by quadrilateralality



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dark, Delusions, Depressed Peter Parker, Depressing, Depression, Drowning, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Poor Peter Parker, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28023939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrilateralality/pseuds/quadrilateralality
Summary: If someone were to ask 15-year-old Peter Parker a question as philosophical as “Where would you see yourself in the future?” at the time he would have answered “As an Avenger’’ because no matter how hard the world tried to taint those innocent baby browns, Peter would always find himself again. However, everyone always tells you to expect the unexpected and for 16-year-old Peter Parker, the ‘unexpected’ was how easily his lungs filled with water when he drowned. How his skeletal body scummed to the unknown depths that lurked below the surface and how he failed to pick himself back up. If anything Peters ‘unexpected’ demise was an analogy of his mental state that hit a little too close to home.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	Pills and Blades may end my life but Death will never hurt me.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after my first attempt at writing fanfiction because I realised that it helps me put my feelings into words and so this fic is to help other people understand how I feel indirectly. Another vent fic and I know it is awful but I'm trying to get better at these.
> 
> This is set after homecoming when peter is 16 but before anything else such as Infinity War.
> 
> Trigger Warnings for  
> -Self Harm  
> -Suicide  
> (both referenced and slightly detailed but not overly graphic)
> 
> Reader discretion advised. Please do not read this if you get triggered easily by these themes and if you read it anyway, good luck.

If someone were to ask 15-year-old Peter Parker a question as philosophical as “Where would you see yourself in the future?” at the time he would have answered “As an Avenger’’ because no matter how hard the world tried to taint those innocent baby browns, Peter would always find himself again. However, everyone always tells you to expect the unexpected and for 16-year-old Peter Parker, the ‘unexpected’ was how easily his lungs filled with water when he drowned. How his skeletal body scummed to the unknown depths that lurked below the surface and how he failed to pick himself back up. If anything Peters ‘unexpected’ demise was an analogy of his mental state that hit a little too close to home.

Depression is empty words and promises, loneliness when you’re not alone. It’s also little white lies forced into the heads of those who probed at Peter’s walls, worried about another roof collapsing on him because this time it would be his own. That’s why it's a silent killer because those around you don’t know the pain you’re in, and it’s because you don't let them. If depression is water, and you are drowning, trying to keep your mouth closed till that very last moment, what if you chose to not open it and let the water in? If you hold off until that reflex kicks in you still have more time, not much but enough time to try and fight your way to the surface, more time to be rescued. The pain would be agonizing, unbearable and holding your breath just makes it worse. But Peter did not want to be in pain anymore, would it have been worth holding his breath if he knew it would only cause agony? Who would have rescued him? Because depression filled Peters lungs with water and he was drowning, unable to open his mouth and scream for help because every time he had tried, he kept letting more water in. Peter didn’t like drowning; he knew there would be no iron clad billionaire to swoop in and save him because unlike last time he wasn’t a miserable little boy because _what kind of pathetic little freak doesn’t know how to swim?_ So, Peter had drowned silently.

Depression is silent in its thoughts but in its actions, it can be obvious to anyone who knows what to look for. Peters showed often when he would be balled up in bedsheets, lying on his side because he didn’t have the energy or the willpower to move. It showed in the times he went to grab a snack from the kitchen, or lack thereof, it also showed in the aftermath where Peter’s collarbone protruded through his skintight spider suit. It showed in Peter’s eyes when that sparkle of innocence that you could barely find in kids of his age died down to a mere shimmer before it disappeared, lost in _empty, rigid eyes_ darkened by the oncoming storm. Peters eyes no longer had the same innocence or curiosity of a teenager, and instead possessed demons bigger than what his shoulders could carry.

Nobody saw the signs, nobody cared because if they really did care he would have someone to talk to. If they cared his friends would hang out with him once and a while, even if for an hour or two. It would have made him feel loved and important unlike how he felt now. Ned and MJ would send worried glances peters way, they had noticed the increase of long-sleeved shirts in Peters wardrobe, but peter dismissed it. Why would someone worth so much care for someone as _worthless_ as him? When Tony and May showed concern about his size or the extra ‘travellers' luggage’ under his eyes he dismissed that too because the only place with free plane tickets was straight into Death’s grip and his grip around Peter was tight. Peter didn't mind that he never let go, at least _someone_ wanted to be around him. He needed to be more careful because it was a secret that he was going to visit his parents and he did everything he could to keep it that way. He hoped Tony and May would understand.

The guilt was a terrible thing. It came after Peter screwed up and that was always because _I'm so fucking useless, useless, useless_. Euphoria made Peter feel alive again because he was always so fucking numb. The rush was always sudden, sleepless nights evolved from weeks that he spent cooped up in the peaceful serenity of his room. It always inspired a flood of creativity, the need to invent and the tingling in his bones that inspired a restlessness he could not get rid of. And so, he turned to passions he thought were lost in the vast empty landscapes his brain had to offer and found that his euphoria gave him a sense of relief from the numbness that usually had his heart aching. He felt like Van Gough's paintings, slowly lost to voices over the years when his mental health deteriorated. He felt elevated and impulsive, his nights as spiderman would rise as crime rates in New York fell. With restlessness that came from the rush, his agitation only grew in stride and he constantly itched to get his fingers onto _something_ and just busy himself with it because if he didn't stand still he could outrun his thoughts.

Peter’s irritability became possessive in his daily motions and he often found himself snapping at his friends, resenting hate speech folded into tiny text box squares and delivered to people that he thought loved him most. He was falling apart and the euphoria didn’t make him feel all that good anymore. He was an emotional liability, _anxious_ and _delusional._ So confident that he heard footsteps roaming the empty halls of his dead parents' house when he was really just sitting on the couch of Mays third floor apartment. Sometimes the footsteps made him paranoid and he couldn't shake the feeling that _someone was watching him._ He couldn't breathe. Peter had perceived his abilities as a dangerous weapon, tasked with the burden of killing his family because __he wasn’t good enough to keep them alive,__ and he was just a _little fucking kid who didn’t know what he was doing _.__ He could no longer look in the mirror and see _Peter_ because _Peter was gone and whoever was standing Infront of him was a monster._

Small talk amongst friends is what Peter’s anxiety told him were arguments and prejudice towards him. He believed that nobody liked him, ‘friends’ just there to get laughs out of him and show the world how puny he was because _puny parker was so fucking weak and stupid, he didn’t deserve love_. Peter feared abandonment from his friends and family because they were the only people he trusted but he fucked up and they all hated him because he was too fucking full of himself to realize the amount of damage he had done. That night, acid filled his lungs instead of water as guilt and regret crashed over him. It burnt deeper than his veins and he craved an outlet.

Peter knew he was too much for everyone and it was a lurking thought that was constantly on his mind. The thought that everyone would be better off without him lurked around too. That thought was always bigger and louder, like an animal in the zoo that you were warned not to poke through the bars of the cage, but you did anyway. He couldn’t help but provoke it and maybe that was because he believed it too. Peter could never seem to tell the difference between reality and a dream because he was always imagining a better life, never focused on what he was doing, just looking bleakly up at the thing people called a future and realizing the letters ‘Peter B Parker’ didn’t belong in that word. His blades are his outlet, for when the guilt becomes too much or the numbness won’t leave him alone because as soon as the sharpened metal tip of a double-edged blade meets with his skin, his shoulders relax slightly, tension bleeding out of him as if mimicking the way blood trails down his arms and thighs. His blood is poison, all things bad and he needs to drain himself of it or he’ll poison someone else too. 

Scalding hot water cascades down a skeletal frame. He’s curled in a ball, eyes tracing his body and admiring the way his stomach concaves and his hip bones jut out slightly. Peter feels proud and he knows this isn’t a distant thought because the stinging of his cuts as the water pounds ruthlessly at tender skin and fatty tissue is keeping him present, so his mind never wanders. He’s only sitting because he can't stand anymore, his legs shake, and his bones are so fragile it feels like they’ll fracture one by one until he collapses. Peter hasn’t eaten in days because it’s his only other way of control and it’s not like he doesn’t need it anyway, _he’s too fat, too fat, too fa_ -He cries so often that salt rivers from his tears make his skin peel and he's happy because even his flesh would look better than his actual skin. He feels like a fraud, underneath his mask is a monster and Peter's scared. But Peter knows his friends would never want to be around such a _vile creature_ and he's happy for them because maybe if they escape he can't hurt anyone anymore. He hopes they'll understand.

If his friends forgive him for his antagonism it doesn’t feel like it because to Peter it’ll always be the same and he will never forgive himself so he can’t forget. Peter’s earlier clarity is gone, weeks have passed since his euphoric feeling and now he’s numb again. His thoughts are jumbled once more because now all that is on his mind is _pills pills pills pills pill_ \- Sitting at the table, Peter doesn’t remember the water stopping its flow over his feeble body or a towel aggressively scrub down his small frame, aggressive because _he doesn’t deserve nice things_. Peter doesn’t exist after all because he doesn’t remember anything anymore. He should be proud, would be proud, for getting out of bed but he is a burden, and _he doesn’t deserve to feel proud of something so minuscule when other people are suffering because of him_. The feeling of pills falling down his throat is so jarring because he never even picked up the bottle, water alongside them this time not going into his lungs but his stomach instead and he is relieved because he isn’t drowning anymore. It’s not selfish because he can’t hurt anyone, he can’t hurt anyone because he’s not real, right? It’s hard admitting you need that extra step up sometimes and Peter’s a growing boy, but he’s not getting any taller on his own. _Peter never picked up the phone._

Dying wasn’t so different from when Peter was alive. He could feel his spine poking through the skin on his back and his ribcage penetrating vital organs, the drugs were making him feel these funny things. Maybe there was blood pumping in his veins once, but his fingers and lips were blue and that only happened to dead people, he knows this because he’s seen the bodies of those he was unable to save due to _his own fucking stupidity_. Nobody is going to die because of him again, he'll make sure of that. Peter Parker is on the ground now, breathless but the black around the edges of his vision is beautiful because now he has witnessed life and death and he feels strangely content and complete. Maybe if Peter Parker were awake a while longer he would have heard the repulsors and the windows of his apartment break and a voice shouting his name but Peter never heard, _because Peter Parker was dead_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how I did, I'm not experienced with writing and I'm working on making things better <3


End file.
